I smirk.
Ellie chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She excuses the orderly and wheels my bed down the hall. “I’m gone for a few hours and you fall apart on me.”
“What can I say? Trouble follows me.”
I see that my room is empty, so I ask Ellie if my mom has called. Or my pop. I don’t know why I care, or why it feels like a kick in the nuts when they haven’t. I’m allowed to call them on the fourth day, though. Which I guess Ellie thinks will make me feel better, but doesn’t. I’m not calling them.
I ask her to close my curtain; I want nothing to do with Dicktoria. Like that? That’s his new name. I can’t believe the dick left me on the floor.
Well, I can kinda believe it, but I still hate his rich guts.
I stare at the sun out the window as Dr. Carl puts the cast on my arm. The guy is a man of few words, and I’m thankful, because his breath stinks. Then I’m casted and alone again.
A snack arrives, and I have trouble not smiling like a clown. It’s a blueberry muffin, chocolate pudding, and Sprite. It’s food. Food that’s delivered on a tray. And I love every bite.
With my good arm I scrape every single bit of pudding out of the plastic container. Then I start thinking about my dad for some reason. All I know is his name. Steve Gallagher. I don’t know what he looks like, how tall he is, what kind of car he drives. Heck, I don’t even know what he does for a living. All I know is that he wanted me gone before I was born. Get rid of it, was what he wrote on the postcard. I should’ve used the stupid computers in school to look him up online. I could’ve gotten an address or phone number. Something. Maybe I can get online here. Maybe it’ll be easy to find him.
I roll my eyes.
He probably won’t want anything to do with me. He might not even know I exist. Knowing my stupid mother, she didn’t even tell him she had me.
All this makes me want to throw up my muffin.
Speaking of puke, Dicktoria never comes back to eat.
Victor
AFTER GROUP ENDS, THE OTHERS WALK ACROSS THE hall to what they call the common room. Lacey calls out to me as I start to head back to my room, “Hey, Victor, come hang out with us.”
I don’t know why I turn around and walk toward the room, but I do. It is really freaking me out that I do. Maybe I don’t actually want to spend the night sitting three feet away from Bull Mastrick, wishing I had the guts to take his stupid crutches and just beat him till he begged me to stop.
Walking in that room means I have to talk to these kids. Am I ready for that? Apparently I am, because I’m sitting on the sofa.
The common room looks like a hospital waiting room, just with couches instead of plastic chairs. It has a TV, shelves with boxes of games, and a table with chairs where the two guys go start playing cards. Three of the girls spread out on the sofas, and then there’s me on one by myself. The other girl with the long black hair and the sour look on her face sits in the corner, facing the window, and writes in a notebook. I guess it’s her journal or something.
One of the sofa girls asks me, “So, what did you do? Wait, let me guess: the car. You used the car, right?”
“No way, he’s pills. He’s definitely pills,” the blond, curly-haired girl says. She is seriously the hottest girl to ever talk to me.
I am solidly stunned that she even spoke to me at all. “Yeah, pills,” I say to her. I wonder how she knows this, but I’m afraid to ask her.
The not-Brian guy turns around from the card table and says, “Parents are real assholes, you get bullied at school, never been laid, got no friends. Am I right?”
“Pretty much,” I say, trying to figure out if they’re making fun of me or just showing off their creepy knowledge of suicide. Great, I can’t believe I just admitted to five strangers and the hottest girl alive that I’m a virgin. Genius.
Nurse Ellie peeks her head into the common room and announces that some snacks are ready next door. I’m glad she’s back. Everyone jumps up and darts out, and Ellie comes in and tells me that once patients are up to it they eat everything in the dining room. That it is so much nicer to sit at a table and eat. Which I think I’ll agree with.
She says it helps build friendships, too. That, I can’t see happening.
Ellie walks me into the dining room and announces, “Bon appétit.” The dining room is a small room with one long rectangular table surrounded by eight plastic orange chairs. In the middle of the table sits a tray of blueberry muffins and another tray of bananas. A whole bunch of sodas and juices are scattered in between the trays. I take the empty seat next to Brian. The hot girl is all the way at the other end.
The table is set with a white tablecloth and a centerpiece of fresh flowers. I can see the hospital has attempted to make this feel like home, except they’ve clearly failed on some crucial points:
1. The tablecloth has faint stains.
2. The flowers are almost dead.
Despite the dirty tablecloth and crunchy flowers, everyone sitting around the table seems surprisingly normal.
Not me. I am stained and almost dead.
Most of the kids talk to each other and I just listen. I swallow a few bites of blueberry muffin, and I realize something. It is pretty cool to actually sit at a table with kids my age and not be asked to get up and leave.
Or be sucker punched in the back.
Bull
I WAKE WITH A START. AND I YELP. I JERKED MY freaking leg. The room is still dark on Victor’s side and I wonder where the hell he’s been all day. Then I say out loud, “Who gives a shit?”
I’m trying to get comfortable when I notice a brown lunch bag sitting on my nightstand. It’s rolled up exactly like the two I found at the cemetery. I freak out a little bit and start looking around, half expecting someone to jump out of my closet or pull back the curtain. After a minute or so I’m pretty sure I’m alone. I unroll the bag. A plastic bottle of apple juice, a wrapped danish, another granola bar, and an orange. And another Post-it.
Enjoy, son.
The poem is from when I was a young dad.
—Frank, the caretaker
P.S. Your bike is safe.
So, it was the lawnmower guy. I didn’t think he ever saw me, though. And how did he find me here? I never said one word to the guy. It’s weird, but in a good way. I reach back into the bag and stuck to the bottom is an old newspaper clipping with a poem typed on it.
Just a Little Peace
Many children know pain
heartbreak
disappointment
at the hands
of those meant to love them
Many children lie in darkness
broken
crumpled
longing for whispers
that everything will be okay
Dreaming
dreaming
dreaming
about survival
retribution
just a little peace
Children want to be loved
cherished
without conditions
restrictions
limitations
or boundaries
A child’s spirit is a fragile thing
a hollow egg
delicate and easy to shatter
Some wait to be filled
with direction
hope
Some wait for no one
they fill
themselves
up
I reread the Post-it and the P.S. smacks me right in the face. I think: My bike! I never locked it, and well, we all know what crazy crap happened next.
What did this Frank mean by “safe”? Did he mean he has my bike? How am I supposed to find it when I don’t even know where he lives? Then I think that he must’ve spoken to one of the nurses. He was in my room, so he had to have talked to someone, right?
I use the nurse call box and ask Ellie who dropped off the brown bag of snacks. She tells me his name is Frank and that she’s surprised I’m asking her this question
, because Frank gave her the impression that the two of us were close, personal friends. I don’t want to get old Frank in trouble. So I tell Ellie that it must be my new pain medications playing with my head because, yes, I know Frank from the cemetery, like, really well. And yeah, we are close, personal friends. And thank you, Ellie. I add that last part so she won’t think I’m lying to her super-hot-nurse-self.
Now it’s just me, the bag of food, the Post-it, and the poem. I may read a lot, but I’ve never read a poem before. Well, that’s sort of a lie. I’ve been read stuff that rhymes, like Dr. Seuss and junk, but I’ve never read a real poem. Ever.
I read it once, then turn the clipping over to see if there’s another one on the back. There isn’t. I read it again. And again. And again.
And then I start crying. Yeah, I’m serious. I’m crying.
Victor
AFTER THE SNACK WE’RE ALLOWED TO GO BACK TO the common room, where my interrogation lasts for another ten minutes. I guess everyone didn’t want to ask “those questions” at the table with the other nurses hanging around. Jenny, the other girl who was sitting on the sofa, tucks her brown hair behind her ears and changes the conversation. Thank God. She says to the hot, curly-blond-haired girl, “Nikole, tell everyone your story. It’s just so freaking sad.”
Nikole, I repeat in my mind. I let the name sway and spin through my head as she talks. I say it over and over again. I think I hear her say she got here two days ago.
Nikole. Nikole. Nikole.
It’s the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard. Brian’s cough clears my thoughts, and I pay attention.
Nikole is saying, “Some drunk driver swerved and then a third car smashed into Greg’s side of the car.”
Lacey takes Nikole’s hand into hers and squeezes. “Why are some people so effing irresponsible? I swear.”
Nikole says to Lacey, “I don’t know. I loved him. And he loved me. We applied to the same colleges and—” She chokes out a cry.
Greg was her boyfriend.
No one says anything for a while, and the only sound is Nikole sniffling. Then she gets herself together and says, “So I took a handful of pills from my mother’s medicine cabinet, left a note, and went to bed.”
Even though Nikole is beautiful, she somehow seems gray and dull—like someone peeled off the shiny layer of her outer shell. I wish I could’ve seen her happy.
She told us that when she woke up in her bed the day after taking the pills, she was mad. Her mom found the note while Nikole was in the shower. Her mother then proceeded to freak out, call this place, and get her in treatment within two hours.
Jenny says, “I still can’t believe you didn’t need to get pumped.”
Nikole shrugs. “I didn’t take enough of any of the pills. I just grabbed a few out of every bottle I could find. The intake guy said I was lucky and if I’d taken, like, four more Valiums, I would’ve either been in a coma or dead.”
I hear Notebook Girl go, “Psh,” from the chair in the corner. She doesn’t lift her head or anything. She’s still writing, her face hidden by her hair.
None of the other kids appear to have heard the “Psh” because they don’t acknowledge the girl at all. Conversation kind of lulls, and pretty soon, one by one, the room empties out—even the girl in the corner leaves.
It’s just me and Nikole now.
As she speaks, I am doing everything in my power to respond with the appropriate facial expressions, which is probably backfiring and making me look like a complete weirdo. This whole talk-to-people-like-you’re-a-regular-person thing is as foreign to me as my parents’ love and acceptance. I tell my brain to shut up and just listen to her.
She tells me she had the weirdest dream last night: Greg came to her and kept reassuring her she would be all right. It made her want to live again.
Really, I can’t believe such a beautiful girl is talking to me, looking me in the eyes, and waiting for me to react to what she is saying. Looking at me. Seeing me.
“I knew you were pills,” she says, and smiles.
I feel my mouth try to form the shape of a smile, but I worry it looks like I just farted or something.
“What?” Nikole says, still smiling. “What’s that face for?”
I shrug and shake my head.
“So, do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asks.
“No, just me.”
“You’re lucky. I have three sisters, and I sometimes wish it was just me. You know, so that I could be who I am and not what they want me to be.”
“Yeah,” I say and look at the floor. I have no idea how to keep a conversation going.
She gets up from her couch and plops down next to me. “Did you ever wish for something, Victor?” she asks.
My breath is caught in my throat. She’s got tears in her eyes, which makes mine instantly fill up too. I make my lips tight so that I don’t full-on cry, because I know that would be the lamest thing I could do right now. I nod. She nods with me, raises her hand, and puts it on my cheek. Now the tears are dripping from my eye sockets and down my face. She takes her thumb and wipes them away without saying a word. To be honest, her eyes are telling me what I’ve desperately wanted to hear my whole life: You’re okay just the way you are.
The funny thing is, I want to fix her.
I feel more bonded to Nikole after a few hours together than I do to both of my parents combined. And they’ve known me for sixteen years.
One of the nurses comes in, smiles, and says, “Just doing my rounds.” I quickly pull myself together. Nikole says she’s going to read in her room.
“Sure,” I say.
We both get up, even though I have nowhere to go. And in the hallway Nikole turns one way and I turn the other. I watch her walk toward her room. She turns around, walks back to me, and whispers in my ear, “Your dreams are going to come true, Victor. I can feel it.” Then she kisses my cheek.
Again I watch her walk toward her room, but this time I can feel the blood surge in my sweatpants. I go directly into the bathroom and brush my teeth, which I understand is a peculiar reaction. I am in there for two reasons:
1. I don’t want to have any interaction with Bull right now.
2. I need my boner to go away, and figure brushing my teeth is a pretty regular and mindless thing to do until it does.
Bull’s curtain is closed when I sit on my bed. I swear I hear a sniffle and a small choke. Then I hear it again. It’s very soft, but it is definitely the same sound.
Bull Mastrick is crying.
I wish I had a secret video camera. I could record this so I could show it to the whole cafeteria. Then maybe, just maybe, he would never punch the chocolate milk out of me again.
I imagine smiling as the whole school watches him cry like a little girl. I smile big and wide.
Then I hear the crying sound again, this time not so low. And Bull whispers, “Shit.”
Bull
I CAN’T BELIEVE DICKTORIA IS BACK AND I HAVEN’T pulled my crap together. He knows I’ll end his life if he tells anyone about this. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Whatever, I’ll kill him if he talks.
I think I’ve read the poem at least ten times. Each time I read it, fresh tears roll down my stupid face. Every single line of that poem hurts. Each line is like a dog bite in the ass. Why would Frank give it to me? Was he trying to make my life even more depressing?
Why would a guy I’ve never even met drop off snacks like I’m going on some dumb field trip? And why shove this poem in there? He must be ticked off that I keep sneaking into his damn cemetery when I’m not supposed to be there. He’s just as much of an asshole as Dicktoria.
Why did he call me “son”? I’m not his kid. Maybe he’s one of those creeps who like . . .
Whatever.
I’m not crying anymore, which is good because I hate crying almost as much as I hate getting pounded on by Pop.
My thigh hurts, my wrist hurts, my stomach hurts, my eyes hurt, and yeah, I’ll admit it, my hear
t hurts. I’m out.
Victor
BULL STOPS CURSING AND CRYING AND IT IS QUIET. I lie back on my bed even though it’s the middle of the day. What the hell else do I have to do? Silence always makes my mind go deep; I usually try to make it come up for air and get out of the murky depths. But I let it go this time. You think I’d be reliving the whole Nikole moment, but no, I sink down . . . down . . . down . . . down. . . .
My parents leave me home from our family vacation so I can get perfect SAT scores. My parents leave me behind. On purpose. Not like in Home Alone. It was a real decision—and I know it made them happy. This makes me sick and angry.
I start sweating. I turn over on my stomach and breathe rage into my pillow. I’m almost sure I hate my parents.
I struggle for a few minutes to conjure one good thing about them. Memories invade my dive into blackness, pulling me closer to the surface.
My mom is brilliant with wound care. Not that I got hurt a lot, but she would always swoop in with her first aid kit and bandage me up. Like when I fell off of my bike in fourth grade and ripped my knee wide open. It was so bad you could see bone. Did she get all woozy and call for my father? No, she calmly held the cut closed with one hand and worked the first aid kit with the other. But on the way to the emergency room, I distinctly remember her ruining the moment with, “Now, Victor, if that bandage isn’t sufficient to stop your bleeding, please tell me immediately. I don’t want your blood ruining the seats in my car. Do you understand me?”
Tenderness.
But I have this other memory that I’m not entirely sure I haven’t imagined. I was four, and I had woken up in the middle of the night because of a bad thunderstorm. I remember walking into my parents’ bedroom and tapping my mother awake. She had smiled, pulled the covers back, and patted the bed. I had crawled into my mother’s warm arms, and she’d kissed the back of my head. I’d laid still and remember telling myself not to move because I didn’t want to be told to go back to my own bed, alone. I had felt perfect. I had felt safe. I had felt loved.
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